


Convivencia

by Gipsy_Danger



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mentorship, Multichapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 11,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gipsy_Danger/pseuds/Gipsy_Danger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Living together; living or working closely with other people with whom you share feelings, desires, or common purpose."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

"First impressions are everything, _sweethaht_ ," Ma says by way of explanation, straightening the collar of his best Sunday shirt as they stand on the loading platform, waiting for a train that the Scout is sure will never, ever come.

A fine drizzle plasters his cowlick flat against his scalp, and Ma tuts over it, flipping it this way and that, until Scout grumbles an indignant, “‘s fine, Ma, really.” If either of them notice that he leans into her hands just a little, they don’t mention it.

The train squeals to a halt, a miniature tidal wave of dirty water sloshes over the platform, and the Scout plucks up his fourth-hand suitcase, somehow thinking he could escape onto the train in the bustle of loading passengers. 

Ma snatches him from the pandemonium, deceptively small hands crushing him into a hug that leaves him gasping for air as the sea of commuters parts around them. Something wet and warm presses into his temple, and then he’s tossed once more into the fray, bobbing along until he’s dragged up the steps by an impatient conductor. 

The Scout elbows his way to the bathroom of the train, scarcely big enough for himself plus suitcase, but he manages to worm his way out of his too-starched shirt, cramming it away in favor of a soft blue tee, scrubbing at his still-damp forehead until the stain comes away in the warm rose of Ma’s lipstick. 

Unconsciously, he tucks the bit of napkin away into his suitcase and, later, it makes its way to his locker.

If any of his new team mates notice the little scrap of paper and pink, they don’t mention it.


	2. Accusation

No one mentions Scout’s lipsticked napkin until an errant rocket blows their Soldier clear to Kingdom Come.

His replacement is not so discrete.

"Your locker’s disgusting, maggot," the new Soldier barks, helmet rattling decisively against the steely gray of his crewcut. 

"What, ya gonna court-martial me over it or somethin’?"

Soldier opens his mouth as if to say yes, of course he would, don’t ask stupid questions, but instead, he slams the door against the Scout’s fingers.

The locker bounces off calloused fingertips, popping open with an explosion of ragged pinups and a near-hysterical screech of “Jesus f-fucking Christ, you b-b-broke my fuckin’ hand!”

The silence that follows is broken only by the Scout’s ragged gasping for breath and the flutter of a single, worn paper, waxy pink shimmering in the fluorescent light. 

Scout ducks to snatch it up with his crushed fingers, but the Soldier’s boot is quicker, stained bandages unraveling as the boy pulls his hand free.

"Give it back!" the Scout snaps, and his voice sounds like the whine of child even to his own ears.

"Contraband  _and_  sneaking away without leave?” For a moment, the Soldier sounds almost impressed, as if he couldn’t imagine meeting anyone with the Scout’s foolhardy courage. The moment passes; his lip curls in a disgusted sneer, baring sharp white teeth, and he turns away. “Dish duty for two weeks? You’re getting soft, Shovel. What? What do  _I_  think?  _I_  think he should do it for four.”

"Wait, hold up a sec, chucklenuts, I know I got some shit in here that ain’t kosher, but I  _never_ skipped outta here into town!”

The Soldier scoffs to the shovel in his belt, brandishing the napkin so close that Scout goes crosseyed trying to look at it.

"So? That’s nothin’. Piece a’ trash," he bluffs, ears burning. 

"Your ‘piece of trash’ looks an awful lot like some two-dollar hooker caught your eye after payday, private."

The Scout breaks his other hand against the Soldier’s jaw.

 


	3. Restless

The fight turns ugly. 

With the majority of his fingers broken, the Scout can’t even grab the Sandman to smash in the face of the sonuva bitch who smack-talked his Ma.

What the Scout does have is a pair of cleats and a kick like a jackrabbit.

The Soldier’s on the ground, red-faced and furious, struggling to his feet despite a fractured ankle, but the Scout pounces with a howl of pain and slighted pride. The battle-scarred helmet bounces across the locker room tile, and the veteran’s eyes seethe silver in the colorless light.

Their glinting tiger’s-glow is stamped out, blood vessels shattering under the metallic spikes of the Scout’s cleat, and the Soldier roars, shovel burying herself in the Scout’s knee. 

The boy goes down hard, spitting obscenities as he scrambles away, broken fingernails scratching the floor. They latch onto the first object they find, a spotless pair of black boots, and cling, oblivious to the shouting overhead. He feels himself dragged upward by the collar, a disobedient pup, and shaken roughly, shovel clattering to the ground. 

The Scout is flung unceremoniously into his bunk, door locking behind him with a weary “Confined to quarters.” Next door, he can hear the Soldier crash into the window, snarl a promise of vengeance, and begin pacing the narrow floor.

He’s still limping circles when the base turns cold for the night, still hobbling when someone sees fit to shove a plate of leftovers through a crack in his door.

The Scout falls into restless, feverish sleep, leg burning. The steady tap-tatap-tap of the Soldier’s boots follows him through his dreams.

He’s still pacing when the Scout wakes up. 


	4. Snowflake

Two days drag by, inch by pacing inch, and the Scout can feel himself slowly going mad.  

It’s too hot to sleep, his leg hurts too much to pace, and his fingers are swathed in too many bandages to handle anything with more precision than a basic shove. So instead, he listens to the same pilfered Johnny Cash record scratch in time to the sweat dripping from his nose.

Outside, the sounds of battle rage, tantalizing screams and gunfire, and a nearby explosion rocks the base hard enough to pause the record. 

The Scout hobbles to the window, mashing his bandaged club of a hand against the glass until it squeals reluctantly open. The fighting is too distant to see details, but an angry gray cloud rumbles overhead, and the Scout stares expectantly, praying for rain. 

Instead, fat, merry flakes of snow begin drifting in the dead air. 

"Hey, Lady Liberty, check this out!" he crows over, briefly forgetting the way he’d smashed the older man’s face in. "Freakin’  _snowin_ ’, man! Jus’ like back home…”

"Wha’ ah’ ya tahgin’ ‘bout?"

"…The fuck you just say?"

There’s a straining of old glass as the Soldier shoves his head out the window, hacking a mouthful of bloody phelm into the sand.

“‘s not like home a’ all,” he clarifies. “Don’ get much snow in ‘diana…”

The Scout needs a moment to decipher the man’s slur, and doesn’t have time to respond before the man is speaking again. 

“‘an’ it doesn’t snow in the desert, maggot.”

"What, yer helmet make ya blind  _an’_  stupid?”

He can hear the Soldier bristle through the drywall, but his reply is surprisingly soft, not quite defeated, but very, very tired. 

"Cleat to the eyes’ll do it."

For a long moment, the Scout doesn’t understand. And then… 

"…Oh. Yeah, well…" You smack-talked Ma, he wants to say. You had it coming, flag-wavin’ douchebag. Go cryin’ to Doc about it.

"Sorry ‘bout that, man."

The Soldier doesn’t accept the apology, but he doesn’t deny it either, just stands at stoic attention to face the blizzard he can’t see. 

 


	5. Haze

The shared silence is, if not comfortable, at least peaceful, and the Scout flops back into the rumpled sheets, watching the snow fall in dazed relaxation. It’s getting cloudier now, clouds like the Scout has never seen, rich and black as sable. They aren’t the clouds of snow…

"Gettin’ crazy out there," he narrates to the dividing wall. "Man, I’ve never seen a storm build like this… We’re gonna have to start buildin’ an ark or somethin’…"

The Soldier snorts derisively, still not convinced there even  _is_  a storm. 

"Look, I’m not yankin’ yer chain here, it’s seriously cloudy out there! Freakin’ Medic, I swear… He prob’ly called down some creepy German storm jus’ ‘cause he knew we couldn’t get in the shit. Bet it’s awesome out there, mud an’ guts everywhere…"

Scout sighs, a touch dreamily, and leans back into the moth-eaten pillow, leg stretched gingerly in front of him. 

"Man, what I wouldn’t give for jus’ ten minutes out there. Beat some poor bastard’s skull in," he rambles, bloodlust making his head spin. 

Or maybe it was the smoke curling silently under the door.


	6. Flame

The Scout tries to sleep, tries to smother images of shattering bones and spurting blood in dreams, but it’s too damn hot, he can’t get comfortable, and he  _can’t stop coughing._

Frustrated, he cracks an eye open, maybe watching the storm will cool his head, but he can’t even see the window. 

"…the hell?" he splutters, choking on the words. He gets unsteadily to his feet and stumbles hard, sending the single, rickety chair splintering to the ground. Picking himself from the wreckage, he staggers to the door, handle searing through his bandages. It’s locked. 

He hears crashing next door, but it’s muffled, and he could swear that the Soldier was shouting something to him. The Scout tries to muster the energy to call back, yell out for help, but his head is spinning and he can barely see. Breathing is becoming a struggle.

Desperately, he cracks his shoulder against the door, but he slides to the floor, too exhausted to move. The floor feels oddly cool against his cheek. He should have slept on the floor all summer. 

There’s a scritching sound just above his head, and it’s a long moment before the Scout has the energy to pick his head up enough to investigate. His hands have started to move on their own, tearing off their bandages to free dirty nails. Deep, bloody furrows scratch across the wood, fingernails chipping away, and the Scout can only watch in a fascinated daze. 

His fingertips suddenly meet empty smoke, and something heavy clasps his wrist, dragging him along the cold-hot-cold floor. Scout’s feet scrape uselessly for purchase, not sure if he’s supposed to be going forward or back. The hallway drags on, a labyrinthine inferno, and all he can distinguish in the writhing smoke is two pinpoints of silver, ringed by the scarlet of broken capillaries. 

The Scout tries to croak a thanks, an inquisition, anything, but the top stair drops out from under his head, and he loses consciousness in a wave of vertigo.

 


	7. Formal

It’s the cold that wakes him, clinging bone deep, driving the air from his lungs. The Scout coughs, trying to expel the ice that’s surely coating his throat, but all he manages is a squeak, tasting the bitterness of ash.

He looks up, bewildered, and the light of a humming Medigun washes over his still-pale skin, tinging it with its alien hues. Beyond it, the shadows of the laboratory stretch like the limbs of a ghostly tree, obscuring the face of the man seated at the desk. 

The Scout doesn’t have to stretch his imagination to figure out who would be hunched over such a stack of files. 

As if overhearing his thoughts, the shadow of the Medic stretches upwards, pacing over with a look of practiced, professional concern. “Velcome back to zhe land of zhe living,” he mutters, a touch wryly, as he consults a machine beeping at the Scout’s bedside. 

"Anyvay," the Medic continues, adjusting the beam of the Medigun to a low, pulsing hum, "I need to check on your hero, so if you’ll just-"

"Hold the fuck up, Doc," the Scout snaps, struggling to sit up around the nest of wires coiled on his chest. "We coulda  _died_  in there. For real.”

The doctor bristles at the accusation, and switches off the Medigun, unfastening from the ceiling mount to cart it across the room, picking his words more carefully than he chose most medications. 

"You vouldn’t have  _died_ ,” he finally explains. “Your chips, zhey work even when you aren’t fighting, you know.” The Scout doesn’t ask how the Medic figured that out, only stares hard at the man, waiting for an explanation. 

The German doesn’t offer one. 

"It vas…" Medic swallows visibly, pride sticking in his throat, "unprofessional of me to lock zhe two of you up there. Especially when I knew how easily zhe Pyro could fire a flare through a window."

The Scout begins to splutter indignantly,  _the Medic knew something like this was going to happen?_ but the doctor shushes him with a gesture, and the boy falls miraculously silent. 

"It vas a mistake," he concludes. "A mistake zhat could have sent two of our best fighters unduly to Respawn. And I’m paying zhe price," he adds, waving a hand to the Soldier lying opposite him. 

"And I’m sorry."

 


	8. Companion

The Scout is given the all-clear minutes later, the vapors of the Medigun patching his lungs easily. Still, he hovers, awkward and anxious beside the Soldier, arm half outstretched. Every so often, he moves as if to touch the sleeping man on the shoulder, to shake him awake, or perhaps to comfort him, but the hand never makes it past the sharp metal edge of the gurney. 

"The hell’s wrong with Sergeant Pepper?"

The Medic looks down from his haphazard perch atop the wheeled stool, trying to attach the Medigun to the secondary ceiling mount. “Zhe usual for someone in a fire? Smoke inhalation, burns, some worse zhan others. Not to mention a fractured ankle from kicking down zhe doors…”

"Not that I’m complainin’, but that sounds like a higher priority ‘n my sore throat. Don’ they teach ya anything in Germany?"

"Of course zhey taught me zhat," the Medic splutters, not catching the teasing lilt in his voice. "He insisted."

"Insisted? What, he  _wanted_  to have me up an’ in his hair right off the bat?”

Medic shrugs a little, adjusting the flow of the Medigun. “Said somes’ing about ‘sissy excuses for gutter rats’ needing it more zhan he did.

"Besides," he continues, noticing the Scout’s guilty shock, "zhis is a man who routinely launches himself into zhe air by blowing up his feet. He will be fine."

"Course he will. Too crazy not to be, right?" 

The Scout doesn’t move from the bedside for a day and a half. 

 


	9. Move

The Soldier doesn’t wake until nearly breakfast, and when he does, it’s with a start. He gasps something unintelligible, voice caught between horror and awe, and the Scout jerks unexpectedly from his half-sleep. 

"Why aren’t you on the field?" is the first thing he manages to croak. 

The Scout opens his mouth to fabricate some nonchalant excuse, but the Medbay doors burst open, and the Medic strides in, looking terrifyingly close to happy. 

"No one is!" he exclaims, flinging open the doors of his dove coop. "Frau Administrator is rotating us while zhe barracks are getting repaired."

"No freakin’ way!" the Scout cries, concern muted by excitement. 

"Vould I lie to-ach, nevermind," the Medic teases, unlatching the Medigun from its nest of ceiling-wire. "Now zhat your knight-in-shining-armor  is avake, vhy don’t you go pack? Zhe faster you get out of my way-"

"Yeah, I got it, I got it. Faster I pack my shit, faster we can blow this town." He turns to the Soldier, who is already unfastening himself from the blinking cords twining across his forearms. "You too, Captain Crunch. Stow your blacklung, let’s go!"

The Soldier ribbits a laugh, rolling to his feet with a suppressed groan. “In a hurry to leave, private?”

"Look, I ain’t stayin’ in a place where that freak puts flares in our windows! ‘Sides, I bet there’s a ton of chicks at the new-"

"That’s what got us into this in the first place," the Soldier interrupts, and the Scout bristles, knuckles cracking.

"An’ I already told ya-"

The Scout’s headset tumbles to the floor, and his head is wrenched sharply to one side, dragged by his ear to the door. 

"I von’t heal you again," the Medic warns, kicking the Scout from the lab, Soldier tumbling out behind him. The older man dusts himself off with a ragged cough, looking ready to pummel the Scout again, but his raised fists are met only with laughter. 

"I knew that’d get us out faster," the Scout boasts, smacking the Soldier’s helmet for good measure before he bolts away, ecstatic. 

 


	10. Silver

The Pyro had extinguished the fire well enough, but the Scout is still shocked by the damage. His collection of pinups flutters across the floor, crinkled and soot-black. He leaves them as they are, flaking into ash on the concrete. 

He’d never bothered to unpack more than a handful of rumpled t-shirts; there had been no need for starchy shirts or polished shoes, but he doesn’t remove them. Maybe there’d be more need for them at the new base…

Scout leaves an entire papery life on the walls, feeling a pang of guilty mourning as he shuts the door on his baseball cards and beautiful women, quilt under one arm. The door refuses to latch, frame badly twisted, and the Scout turns to bolt down the stairs, get out of the still-smoky air, but a sharp grumble detains him. 

Peeking around the corner, he finds the Soldier, shaky and swearing, fighting a box from his scorched footlocker. The fire must have started in here. 

"Hey, uh, need a hand or something? I wanna get outta this dump, stat."

"Should grab one of those damn Commies that did it, make  _them_  open it,” the Soldier snarls back, giving the locker a well-deserved bang with his shovel. The metal remains a stubborn, melted lump. 

"Look, I don’t think you’re gettin’ your shit outta there…"

"Not with that attitude, maggot!"

The Scout sets his jaw, weighing his options. He could leave the Soldier here and not feel an ounce of regret, but the old vet’ was as mule-headed as the Scout himself. He wasn’t going anywhere without whatever was in his stupid footlocker. 

"Stand back, knucklehead, I got this," he announces, taking the shovel from the man’s iron grip. Testing the weight of it, he slides the blood-streaked blade between the biggest cracks in the locker, leaning his weight against the handle. The shovel groans in protest, but doesn’t break. There’s a screeching  _pop_ , and the locker splits open along a rusted seam, spilling its treasures.  

Nothing inside looks particularly important, only some battered maps and a dogeared copy of  _The Art of War_ , but the Soldier grins like a child at Christmas, jamming the spoils into his rucksack. 

"What was so impor-woah! Is that an actual medal?" The Scout clambers over the trunk to see it closer, fingers almost touching the pristine ribbon. "Holy shit, a Silver-fucking-Star? How many Nazis you have ta kill to get  _this_?”

The Soldier seems a little taken aback by the Scout’s enthusiasm, but lets him fawn over the star for a long moment. 

"Japs, not Nazis," he corrects, gaze distant. 

"Okay, moving can freakin’ wait, man, I  _gotta_  hear this one. You go all John-Wayne on their yellow asses? Machine-gun ‘em down? Oh, wait, you must’ve burnt down, like, a hundred bamboo shacks, right?”

The silence stretches impossibly long, metal cold against the Scout’s fingers. 

"…I don’t remember."


	11. Prepared

"Those jackasses need to hurry their shit up. I’m  _dyin’_  out here!” the Scout gripes, thudding his head against the bed of the Engineer’s little blue pickup. 

The Soldier, standing at ease, backpack still buckled on, turns with a snort of a laugh. “First mission I ever went on. Spent four hours sitting in our own traffic, didn’t drive half a klick. An’ we thought we’d be killin’ Japs ‘til supper…”

"Great, so we get a freakin’ repeat performance? I’ve been goin’ stir-crazy for days, I gotta bash some heads, man!"

"You even  _think_  about touching this truck and I’ll strangle you with your own hands.”

"Ease up, Sarge, I’m not gonna break the damn truck. But I’m gonna break  _somethin’_  if the rest of our crew doesn’t show in the next five minutes.”

As if on cue, the Pyro squeaks along, duffelbag cuddled to their chest. “Mmmphm-mmm mmrr mmhm.”

"What’s the Doc need another  _hour_  for?”

"Mmm-mmph."

"Thought he was just bringing his pigeons, not his whole damn lab! There’s not beakers an’ shit at the new place?"

"Mphm," the Pyro huffs, tossing the misshapen bag into the truck’s battered seat, plopping down next to it to wait. 

"Great, what’re we gonna do now? ‘Cause smashin’ the windows off Doc’s stupid ambulance is startin’ to look real good right now…"

"Drills!" the Soldier snaps, dragging the Scout to his feet by the collar. "Start jogging, private."

To his surprise, Soldier takes the lead, jogging along in full kit to the back of the base. The dumpster sits, overflowing with things no-one wanted to pack. Lamps without bulbs, scorched furniture, and dozens of other abandoned relics all gleam faintly with promise in the beating sun. 

The Soldier points to the pile with a single order. “Smash.”

"Wait, what?"

"Your commanding officer just gave you an order, maggot."

"Hey, don’t have to tell me twice," the Scout adds with a shrug, twirling his bat as he pounces. Glass shatters in a glittering cloud as he pummels the screen from a broken computer monitor, wood cracking hollowly as a chair collapses to pieces. 

The Scout gives a whoop, batting a ball of tangled wire into the horizon. “You gotta try this!”

"Men don’t  _play_  in the  _trash_.” 

"Yeah, well, it’s freakin’ awesome, so c’mon. Take a wallop. Break this stupid lampshade. It’s all, I dunno. Not-American."

The Soldier is unimpressed by the logic, but lifts his shovel reluctantly, crunching through the litter. A single hit, and the plastic shade is exploding into faded green. He doesn’t say a word, but the barest hint of a smile tugs at his lips. 

"Nice shot! Hey, check those plates out! Look kind of like Stalin’s, don’t they?" 

Scout tosses a plate in an easy underhand, and the Solider shatters the ceramic in a one handed swing. 

Their laughter is rough, out of practice, but it’s genuine. 


	12. Knowledge

The pile of garbage is little more than a fine powder when the two mercenaries are through with it. The Scout perches on the edge of the ruined dumpster, jerking a thumb back to the waiting vehicles. 

"Think that crazy Kraut is done yet? ‘Cause I think we’ve waited too freakin’ long already."

The Soldier squints into the horizon, shrugging. “He can catch up. We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

The Engineer is ready by the time they return, sticky with sand and sweat, but the little Texan doesn’t complain, just buckles his toolbox safely away. The Pyro dangles one arm from the bed of the pickup, marking that space as their own, a nest of suitcases and hastily labeled crates. 

Scout is thrust into the middle seat, as usual, headset scratching against the Engineer’s helmet as he elbows for more room. 

"Ya’ll ready to rock an’ roll?"

"Hudda!" Pyro announces from the back, rapping on the rooftop in excitement. 

The powder-blue pickup gives a little purr of agreement, dust curling from her tires as they leave the base, and the remaining two vehicles, behind. 

They drive for the better part of an hour, bickering over the radio, proper barbecue, and who makes the best coffee. When they reach a fork in the road, the little team heads west, vote unanimous.

No one remembers being told exactly where they were supposed to be headed.


	13. Denial

"Not ta keep bustin’ your ass about this, but are we there yet?"

The grinding of the Engineer’s teeth is like the squealing of old windows, long-suffering and patient, but irritated, exhausted. 

"Don’t ya think we’d be stoppin’- boy, don’t touch that radio. Do somethin’ useful with those grubby paws. Grab that map outta the glovebox."

"Wait, whadda ya need- are we lost?"

Something sharp and papery slaps across his mouth as the Soldier whips the map across the dashboard. It’s much stained, coffee ringing most of the Midwest, and inked paths trace, spiderlike, from New Mexico to a half-dozen distant points. The other bases, Soldier muses aloud, pointing to one on the coast. 

"That’s where we need to be," he explains, squinting at the map as he tries to determine their current location. 

"Naw, man, we’re goin’ up a little bit. Here, right?"

The Engineer shakes his head, pulling the truck to the side of the road. One metallic finger taps the northernmost point. “Coldfront, didn’t ya’ll listen?”

"Huh!" the Pyro calls from the back, tapping one glove on the window. They point to a cluster of points over Colorado, squeaking a word that sounds like…

"Hoodoo? Isn’t that, like, rock towers or somethin’? Don’t think we’re goin’ minin’, Mumbles."

"Alright, huddle up. We’re going to have to find an alternate route back down to Well. Engineer, you’ll be navigator, find me the quickest path-"

"Well? Fuck that, we’re supposed to be goin’ to some Double Cross place. I got the map, let’s just turn tail and take, uh, maybe a right back at that turn?"

Pyro thumps on the roof with a fist, muttering “Hoodoo!” with childlike insistance. 

"I think we all need to consider the possibility that we’re all wrong here. If we don’t know for sure where we’re going-"

"Impossible! I drew up a map to the new base just this morning, we can’t be lost!"

"We can if we weren’t going to your stupid base in the first place, Sarge…"

"I think we’re-"

"We’re not."

"Lost."

 


	14. Wind

"Lost?!" the Scout squawks, a note of panic in his voice. "What are we gonna do now?"

"Calm down, private. We’ll go on foot from here. Split up, walk to the other bases- do any of you hippies know how to send smoke-signals?"

Pyro raises a proud hand from the back, but their gesture goes unheeded. 

"Neither of ya are thinkin’ rationally here. We haven’t been drivin’ too long, we’ll just turn right around, head back to where we started. I’m sure Boss’ number is around somewhere, we’ll just have to give her a call, see where we’re supposed to be headed."

Soldier grunts, not liking the lack of wilderness survival in the Engineer’s plan, but the objective is solid. They can improvise something a little flashier on the way. 

The little pickup spins herself back onto the road, trundling off into the sunset.

____

The moon has dipped low in the sky by the time the Engineer decides to rest. The Scout is snoring faintly, face mashed into the Soldier’s arm, but the veteran doesn’t complain, staring straight into the horizon. The Engineer wonders if he’s fallen asleep with his eyes open. 

The truck purrs gratefully into the sand, headlights winking gently to sleep, and the Engineer can feel himself slumping against the window, intending to close his eyes just for an hour, and then back to driving…

Suddenly, he’s falling through empty air, jerking awake with a start. His door is hanging open, sand dusting across his overalls as it blows in the considerable wind. 

Engineer turns to check on the rest of his doors, and finds Scout curled on the seat, looking uncomfortable, but too deeply asleep to care. Soldier and Pyro are suspiciously absent-

A nearby cactus explodes into flames, illuminating a half-assembled canvas tent as the Soldier putters around it, setting up a makeshift camp.

Rubbing the grit from his eyes, the Engineer gets slowly to his feet. “What in Sam Hill are you two doin’?”

"This tent will stay at least twenty degrees warmer than your truck," the Soldier rattles off, tying off the final knot. 

"That may be, but I’m not plannin’ on stayin’ long. Just restin’ my eyes an’ we’ll hit the road again."

"In this wind, Tex?"

Now that the Soldier brings it up, the wind is getting close to brutal. Ghostlike swirls of dust sweep over the road, blurring the lines between road and sand. The Engineer finds himself tugging his goggles protectively over his eyes, inching a little closer to the flaming cactus. The Pyro produces a bag of marshmallows from the ambiguous rolls of their suit, charring them thoroughly before shoving them up under the mask. 

The Engineer drags his suitcase from the truck, making himself a comfortable seat before taking his guitar from the luggage and beginning to strum tunelessly. The Pyro starts humming something unintelligible, slurping up marshmallow ash.

A cherry pinprick dances from just outside the tidy little tent, and the Engineer can almost make out the shape of the Soldier, smoking peacefully as he polishes his boots. In this light, the Soldier’s manic energy is dulled, and he seems content in the sand and fire, at ease. 

At home.


	15. Order

Through the hubbub of unpacking, the shrill cry of the telephone can scarcely be heard.  The Sniper, passing by chance, box of ammunition under one arm, plucks up the receiver with a barely concealed grimace.

"Yeah?

"How should I know? They didn’t come with me. Prob’ly jus’ got turned round somewh-

"Course Oi know they’re our responsibility. ‘s half our team for Chrissakes!

"What? I can’t jus’ go runnin’ off after ‘em-

"…Yes ma’am. We’ll find ‘em."

___

Sniper catches the Medic trying to get his equipment unloaded from the ambulance, mourning over his best set of beakers, cracked in transit.

"Hey, Doc, looks like we’re saddlin’ up again. Boss’ orders."

"So go and get zhem," Medic grumbles, abandoning the beakers. 

"Not a solo mission."

"And I suppose zhat was another order?"

The Sniper shrugs, trying to appear unaffected. “Truckie’s a smart bloke, wouldn’t have gotten lost that easy. If ya ask me, Oi think they ran inta some bad luck. Maybe the other side ‘bushed ‘em. Prob’ly better that ya tag along. 

"And it was Boss’ orders."

The Medic heaves a long-suffering sigh. 

"Zhey’re making due with my field kit zhen. Zhe Medigun won’t work out of range anyway."

"Oi’m hopin’ we won’t need it," the Sniper admits, swinging himself up and into the van. 

"I’m sure we won’t," Medic says flatly from the passenger’s side. He doesn’t sound convinced, but contents himself with sitting and listening to the quiet tinniness of the Sniper’s radio. 

"Sure would be noice if Oi knew where we were supposed ta be headed. You any good at navigatin’, Doc?"

The Medic unfurls the map across his lap, squinting against the brilliance of the setting sun. He taps the squiggle of road with a finger, tracing a path back to their desert base. 

"Unless zhey got lost, and I know you have faith, but it  _is_  possible, we should be able to find zhem along zhis way. With luck, anyway.”

"Sounds good enough ta me. Keep a weather eye out, yeah?"

___

They drive for several hours with no luck, and Sniper begins to fear the worst. If they died out in the desert, would they still Respawn? Would they end up at their old base, or would this entire trip be for nothing, four missing team mates alive and well at the new base?

The Sniper stifles a yawn, shaking the thoughts from his head. “Wot were ya sayin’ about luck?” he teases, trying to push his worries to the side. Medic turns from staring out the window, opening his mouth to speak. 

"Look, there!" he cries, pointing to the Sniper’s window. Something orange smolders in the horizon. It’s probably just a group of campers, but…

"Better safe ‘n sorry," Sniper says with a shrug, pulling up to the distant fire. 

The Pyro is curled in the coals, smoking faintly as they sleep, Engineer dozing on a suitcase nearby, guitar clasped loosely in his hands. 

The Sniper shakes his head with a smile, rolling down the window of the van.

"You lazy Yanks forget where you were goin’?"


	16. Thanks

The Engineer looks up with a grateful smile, slinging his guitar over one shoulder as he ambles over to the idling van. 

"Didn’t get the memo. Ended up runnin’ all across hell’s half acre tryin’ ta find tha darn base."

"Mmmph!" Pyro agrees from the nest of coals, reluctantly stamping them out. 

"And if you four had  _listened_  instead of just running off into zhe sand-“

"Ease up, Doc, we were all itchin’ to get out of that place," the Sniper says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Not their fault they got turned round, ya can’t very well expect ‘em ta go off ta four places at once. ‘s what ya tried, isn’t it?"

Engineer chuckles good-naturedly, leaning into the window to peer at the map. “Somethin’ like that. What’re we headed to a place called Sawmill for?”

"Beats me. Can’t say Oi mind tha change of scenery."

"With ya on that one, Stretch. Startin’ to get a little tired of sand in my machines."

"Then why don’t we leave zhis sand and head back to zhe base?" Medic suggests, a bit testily. 

"Sure thing, Sawbones. Jus’ give me a minute to wake the ol’ vet."

"Oi got it," the Sniper offers with a mischievous grin. He gives the horn a swift beep, dissolving into laughter as the Soldier flies from his tent, shovel drawn, ready for battle. 

"At ease!" he calls over, beeping the horn once more for good measure. "We’re here ta drag ya back to base. Truckie, you want ta follow us, or…?"

"Thanks, but ya’ll don’t need to go to all that trouble. I’ve got that path memorized, we’ll be jus’ a few minutes behind ya, alright?

"An’ to tha both of ya…It was more’n decent of ya ta come lookin’ for us. I’m jus’ sorry ya had ta drive all tha way out here in the dark, an’ right when everyone’s trying to get settled too. Thanks for it, really."

"Not loike we could leave half our team lost out in tha sand," Sniper says, shrugging off the Engineer’s praise. "Anyway, Oi’m going ta head back, Doc looks ‘bout ready ta pass out on me."

As the van purrs away into the rising sun, the Soldier packs up his tent, grumbling about false-alarming Snipers. 

The Engineer sketches on the back of an old inventory list. He’d had an extra car battery and some scrap wood he wasn’t using…

 


	17. Look

The Scout dreams of rocking boats and roasting marshmallows, dead to the world. He doesn’t stir when the Soldier props him back into the center sear, doesn’t so much as twitch when the truck rumbles awake and begins to follow the Sniper’s trail. 

In fact, he doesn’t wake up until the sun streams in through the windows of the pickup. 

"Nnn," he grunts, peeling himself from the upholstery, hat askew, face sticky with drool and sweat. 

"The hell is this place…?" Scout mutters, stretching and scratching as he clambers from the vehicle.

All he can notice is the  _noise_. The sand had muted everything back at the old base, but here… Birds twitter, brooks babble, leaves rustle, even the sun makes a twinkling sound as it filters through the trees. 

Instinctively, the Scout hates it, but he isn’t sure if it’s because it’s so little like the old base, or so much like home. 


	18. Summer

The Scout doesn’t have much to unpack after the fire, only a quilt to unroll on his bare mattress and a handful of pinups and shotgun shells to stuff inside his locker. The pinked napkin scrap stays tucked away under his little-used batter’s helmet. 

The Administrator had given them an unusually generous day off, something about the other side being temporarily detained, Spy had muttered, but Scout wasn’t about to argue. The interior of the base was much the same as their last, bare walls and concrete floors, but the outside had some degree of interest, at least.

Even if it was a little too much like the Snow White porno his brother had sent him. 

Keeping an eye out for lecherous dwarven miners, the Scout pads through the carpet of pine needles. If nothing else, he could explore the new grounds, have the upper hand next fight. 

This place is far from what he’s used to. The trees twist and bend like claws, and he barely has room to stretch his arms out, much less swing a bat, but his cleats gouge the bark of the trees and he scrambles up, light as a squirrel. 

The heat is of a different breed too. It isn’t the heat of the desert, not the sort that makes his cheeks blister and his eyes tear, but something stuffier, damp and oppressive, and he nearly falls from his branch, which has grown slippery with his endless sweat. 

He needs a drink or a shower or  _something._  It’s disgusting out here. 

Scout leaps gracelessly to the forest floor, trying to remember which way he came in. It’s no good, all he can see is trees, trees, trees. Well, shit. 

He picks a direction at random, peeling the bandages from his hands as he goes, trailing them like a mummy. His dog tags hang hotter and heavier than a furnace, hat trapping the heat better than a knitted cap. He’d gotten heat-stroke once, back before he’d learned to drink more than pop during a fight, and he was starting to feel much like he did then. Despite the air being wet enough to pool droplets on his skin, his mouth is dry. He feels sick, shaky.

The Scout forces himself forward, eyes half lidded against the dappled light. It assaults him from every angle, he feels like he’s caught in a prism, blinded by gold and white and…blue?

The roaring in his ears that he’d attributed to vertigo isn’t the blood rushing though his veins. 

It’s a waterfall, cascading in brilliant, reflective hues into a cold, deep pool. 

The Scout strips like his clothes are on fire, plunging into the water in little more than his boxers. 

It’s not until a fish hook slices across his chest that he sees the Soldier fishing from the rocks beside him. 


	19. Transformation

“ _Ow_ , ya jackass!” Scout yelps, more surprised than hurt. Bloody tendrils wind down his chest, spreading pink webs in the pool, and he tries not to think about piranhas. “Were ya even’ payin’ attention to me?”

 

The Soldier reels in his line, helmet obscuring much of his vison. “You don’t get in the blind spot of a man with a fishing line,” he barks in return, Shovel thumping in agreement. 

"Well who the hell goes fishing in a damn waterfall? No fish is gonna be dumb enough to-"

The icy pool, once refreshing, turns bitter cold, raising gooseflesh across the Scout’s shoulders and he shudders hard, teeth chattering too hard to finish the quip. The sun is gone from the hazy sky, and thick, black clouds scuttle overhead. 

"Aw shit, looks like ra-"

Ba-boom. 

His careless words act like a switch, flicking the day from hot, sticky sun into endless droves of rain, falling so hard they’re nearly hail, pinging off the rocks, burning his skin. 

"Get out of the water, maggot!" Soldier yells over the maelstrom, rain sheeting off his helmet. 

"”fraid I’m gonna catch cold?"

Lightening rents the sky, everything outlined in blinding, skeletal shapes, and the Scout screams in shock and pain, the sound of a gunshot exploding through his ears. A towering pine, warped and blackened, topples to the ground, nearly pinning the Soldier, who dives to one side to avoid it.

"Holy shit!" he screeches through the ringing in his ears, scrambling from the water, only stooping to pluck up his saturated uniform. The Scout forces his feet into the swollen cleats, pulling the sodden tee over his head as he sprints, stumbling and blinded after the Soldier. 

"Keep up, private!" Soldier yells over a shoulder hunched against the storm. "You’d never survive the Pacific like this!"

"Cut me s-some fuc-c-c-cking slack, man! It’s freezing out here!" he chatters back, bundle of clothes clutched to his chest. 

"I’m not cutting you a damn thing until we’re back in the base, private. Go, go, go!"

The Scout staggers ahead, slipping in the muddy river that was once a worn footpath. Soldier jogs along behind, drenched but stoic, face unreadable. Only his hand, steadily peeling the skin from his thumb, betrays his worry. 


	20. Tremble

Scout slams hard into the latched door of the base, and for a moment, he can’t see to figure out the mechanics of punching in the combination lock, hands slapping uselessly at the knob. Soldier nudges him to one side, not as gently as he’d intended, and wrestles the keypad from the boy’s frozen grip. 

 

Calloused fingers jab a succession of ones, and the door creaks open with a weary  _bebeep_. Scout, who had been pressed into the hinges, eyes half-lidded, tumbles forward in a flopping of limbs, appearing, for a moment, dead. He shivers on the tile, the clattering of his teeth echoing in the empty common room. 

"Get up, son, " the Soldier orders, tugging on the Scout’s limp arm, which dangles bonelessly.

"Five minutes," he pleads back, tucking his head under his free arm, skin taking on a blue tint in the new light.

"GET. UP," Soldier insists, heaving the boy to his feet, despite his increasing protests.

"Nnn, ‘m fine. Don’ take me to tha Doc. Jus’ gotta…" he pauses, yawning enormously, head lolling on his chest. "Gotta…jus’ lemme sleep…"

"You so much as  _think_  about closing your eyes, I’ll have you running drills until you  _die!_ " he yells back, shaking the Scout by his collar, who moans a half-hearted protest. 

Soldier grunts in frustration, hauling the Scout up the stairs and he whines and scrabbles at the hand knotted in his shirt. 

"Lemme go, man, ain’t gonna jus’…" Another yawn, another almost-protest. 

"You won’t so much as  _think_  the word cold, you hear me?”

The Scout doesn’t respond, a marionette with cut strings, heaped in a pile at the top of the stairs, head propped against his door at a bizarre angle. 

The door, left unlocked in a rare moment of good fortune, is shoved open, Soldier peeling off the boy’s dripping clothes, leaving them in a sodden pile at the foot of the bed. 

"T-the hell?" the Scout chatters, every inch of him pale gooseflesh. 

The Soldier doesn’t reply, only throws clothes over his shoulder in the Scout’s direction, a dirty t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, woolen socks. 

"Stop yawning and  _change_ , or I’ll drag you straight back down to the Medic and  _he_  can deal with you.”

Scout fumbles his way into dry clothes, hands all but useless as they grasp limply at the fabric. Soldier continues to pile clothing on top of him, both sweaters his Ma packed, a second pair of socks. Finally, the quilt is wrapped snugly around his shoulders, a cocoon of American stubbornness and cheap Chinese stitching. 

“‘s hot,” Scout grumbles, cheeks flushed, nose running. 

The Soldier says nothing, just stuffs dirty socks into the cracks of the window and presses the back of one hand to the Scout’s forehead. 

"Sleep it off, maggot."


	21. Sunset

The Scout sleeps like a bear in hibernation, dreamlessly, unmoving, and just as ravenous when he wakes. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in days, realizes that he actually hasn’t- not since before the fire. No wonder he feels so sick, so feverish, still so, so tired. 

He feels wet too, soaked to the bone, and sticky with…Ew. He’s sweating like a pig in all these layers. 

Groaning, he sheds his pair of sweaters, his quilt, his double socks, all damp and reeking. Christ, he needs a shower, he smells worse than the damn locker room. 

His stomach rumbles furiously, threatening to devour him from the inside out. Okay. Breakfast first. Er, dinner. Shit, how long had he been out?

Scout teeters down the stairs, railing clenched in white knuckles, vision blurry. He feels dizzy, faint, he shouldn’t have moved…

It’s a miracle that he makes it to the kitchen, and it’s close to the Second Coming when there’s half a tin of beans left cold on the countertop. He wolfs it down without second thought, scooping it straight from the can on trembling fingertips.

He flops bonelessly in the kitchen chair until his vision returns, lifting heavy eyelids long enough to glance at the clock. Nearly seven, but the room is illuminated by a thousand spinning dust-motes, caught in the strange, unnatural light. 

"Weird," he mutters off-handedly, trying to summon the motivation to drag himself to the locker room. He makes it as far as the front door. 

The clouds are still smoke-black and furious overhead, spinning around the spire of a distant radio tower, which glows in the static sunlight. “Okay, that’s pretty freakin’ sweet,” he admits, squinting against the impossible brilliance. 

Maybe his shower could wait. He could use some fresh air. 

 


	22. Mad

The relief from stepping outside is immediate, the air cold, the wind chasing away the last vestiges of humidity. The deck smells like old wood, damp and rotting, and the Scout slips on a patch of mildew, landing with a slick  _thump_.

The landing isn’t as hard as he’d expected, more like flopping back on one of the base’s lumpy mattresses, and he lies back for a moment, breathing in the cold evening air. This thing was more comfortable than his bed… Maybe he’d camp out here tonight, he muses silently, resting his head against the slimy boards, eyes half-closed. 

He can see someone hunched over on the steps, silhouetted against the brilliant not-light, muttering intently to a metallic  _something_  clasped in his hands.

"-not jealous, are ya?"

"…"

"Sound it to me, sweetheart."

"…"

"I heard that; you know no one’s gonna replace you. We’re a team, you an’ me."

"…"

"What? Fine, we’ll- stop interrupting me, Tokyo Rose, I’m the one giving the orders here! We’ll personally drag that Ruski and his goose steppin’ Doc back down to hell, an’ you’re going to help me, and yes, that  _is_ a direct order. No going loose-cannon on this mission. Last time…”

"…"

"Shut up, cupcake. I’ve had it with that damn Jap sword. It was your idea, and it was the worst one-yes, worse than the pickaxe, don’t bring it up! You an’ me, sweetheart, you an’ me."


	23. Thousand

The Scout had retreated without a word, unnoticed and unsettled, scavenging the remainders of the kitchen before retreating back to his bunk and try to sleep off the Soldier’s hushed words still ringing in his ears. 

The battle announcement rings cold and clear over the muddy pathways of the Sawmill, and the Scout tumbles from bed. He shivers, though from cold or nerves he isn’t sure, digging through his rancid pile of laundry as the Administrator barks the usual orders over the intercom. 

"Failure to comply with the above will result in termination," the voice hisses, pausing for effect. 

"As this is your first mission at Sawmill, the winning team will receive a bonus of one thousand dollars, provided that all opposing members are dead. Have fun."

Another pause.

"Three. Two. One. Control Point enabled."

The intercom cuts out. 

"Bonus? Freakin’ sweet!" the Scout cries, sweeping up his bat as he flies to the lockers, cleats still untied. 

The room is empty when he arrives. Scout doesn’t panic, not in the least, but if he whips his Scattergun from his locker in a frantic rush, there’s no one in sight to tease him for it. 

 


	24. Outside

The fighting at Sawmill has an entirely different feel than the fighting back at the old desert base. In the sand, things were lazier, slower. No one had the energy to fight too hard for too long, and the battles usually just dissolved into a screaming match, REDs and BLUs tucked in their respective foxholes. 

But here… Here, there was a kind of wildness, raw, desperate, furious. They’re fighting like they did when they were first hired, back when they were actually trying to kill each other. 

The enemy Sniper leaps from a rainblack pine, silt-streaked and howling. 

Scout leaps back from the slashing blade with a yelp, cleats churning mud. “Jesus, Snipes, not even gonna let me-“

The Sniper roars again and the Scout wakes up on the Respawn floor. 

"Crazy bastards," Scout mutters, bolting through the double doors and bounding onto a low rooftop, surveying the carnage. 

The rain is driving them all mad. 

A pinstriped sleeve drags a struggling Pyro under the waterfall, a Sentry exploding into scrap under the onslaught of a charging Demoman. And, true to his word, Soldier is ramming his shovel through the Heavy’s skull, Medic already limbless and lifeless in the mud. 

The Scout takes a running leap, touching down on the roof of the next building, flying down a crumbling walkway, cleats sinking into the rotting wood. If he can just get inside, get on the point, that bonus is as good as his. He swings himself off the roof, clearing the stairs and landing with scarcely a bump. 

And there! 

Legs flailing, he makes a leap for the exposed point, already tasting the solid grand waiting for him. 

The Scout doesn’t even have time to scream before the whirling saw-blade separates his legs from his body. 

 


	25. Winter

The snow is falling now, damp, sticky flakes piling onto the roof, the mill-blade still wailing across the floor. In the months spent at the mill, they’d all grown used to the arbitrary whirling of the saw. Grown to like it, even. 

The hollow popping of a grenade launcher sounds across the room, and Scout dodges backwards with moments to spare, landing safely on the point as the saw buzzes across his field of vision. The bomb that had been intended for his head bounces off the blade, rolling into an empty corner of the building, shaking the windows as it explodes. 

There is an equally loud noise from the mounds of snow outside, it sounds like everything in the Demo’s pockets exploded at once, and the Scout laughs and whoops and bounces on the point. 

"Un-freakin’-touchable!" 

No one was even trying to get at the point. Probably because he’s got the Sandman out and the first person to try is gonna get a baseball to the skull. 

…Or because the explosion outside was all of the snow falling from the roof and barricading the doors. 

"Shit," he mutters, just as the point locks and "Victory!" screeches from every intercom. 

Maybe the roof-entrance would be clear now… 

Tugging his scarf up around his nose, Scout wades through the melting snow covering the rickety stairs, grimacing as it drenches his socks . The doorway at the top is still crammed with snow. Great. 

Maybe he can dig his way out…

Scout makes a dive for the doorway, ramming the wall of snow with a shoulder, expecting resistance. Instead, he finds himself flying forward onto the now-cleared roof, landing with a crunch, arm twisted beneath him. He chokes on a cry, scrabbling at the slippery aluminum with his good arm, cleats scratching the metal. He can feel himself sliding, faster, faster, he’s tumbling head-over-heels from the roof, landing with a plop in a mountain of slush and snow. 

He lies back for a moment, sick, dizzy, trying to collect the breath to call for Medic, though the German is sawing through the enemy Pyro’s rubber suit, spilling the organs beneath, and probably wouldn’t come. 

Scout manages to sit up, one hand sinking into the snow to push him forward, but it meets something sharp and cold, slicing across his palm. He withdraws his hand with a startled yelp, blood splattering the snow. 

It’s probably just a bit of rusted scrap, but the Scout could swear he could feel movement beneath him, and a muffled, frantic shouting. 

So he digs. 

An arm punches up through the snow, nearly catching the Scout in the ribs, and a second arm, all but frozen to a shovel, plows through seconds later. 

The Scout nearly falls from the pile in surprise, latching onto the hands to catch himself, pulling a swearing, trembling Soldier from the ice. 

The older man is tinged blue, teeth clattering loud as a machine gun, but he tries to gain his footing back, and when he can’t, drags himself away from the pile with his shovel, babbling incoherently. 

Scout watches for a stunned moment, trying to grab the Soldier’s jacket, pull him to the Medic, because what else is he supposed to do, but the man is inconsolable. 

"C’mon man, ya have ta get up, I can’t drag ya over ta Doc like this…"

“‘s tha canaries, I told ya! They’re not in the damn mine, all the hippies caught them an’ there’s feathers all across the river, I told you, I told you! They’re breaking down the roads, and we’ll never get to Rome, not with the cats chasing us, the dogs aren’t fast enough, you’re not listening!”

If there are tears running down his cheeks, Scout blames the wind.


	26. Diamond

The battle has long since concluded, but the Scout remains crouched in the slush, watching the Soldier pace a shivering path back and forth, back and forth. Scout knows he should call for the Medic, Soldier can barely walk straight, skin swollen and blue, but he doesn’t think the veteran should be left to his own devices out here.  

 

"Let’s g-get inside," the Scout chatters for the thousandth time. “‘m sure ‘s even too cold for tha Commies out here."

"Negative!" he barks back, and for a second, Scout believes him to be coherent again. About frickin’ time. "I refuse to jump outta this God-damn plane until we’re a thousand klicks from Paris, you hear me?"

The Soldier pulls at his jacket,  _thank Christ, he finally started to feel the cold,_  and the Scout sighs, beginning to walk stiffly for the base. 

"You comin’?" he calls over his shoulder, nose already beginning to run from the warmth of the base doorway. 

The Soldier is pacing for a distant snowbank, jacket discarded, bare arms already red with cold. 

"…the hell you think you’re doin’, chucklenuts? Forget somethin’ in the snowbankin’? C’mon, Doc’s gonna have to check out more’n just a few loose screws in that noggin’…"

"Sun Tzu had to dig out snow caves to survive a winter of fighting the Communists," he slurs, shovel flying as he burrows into the snow. "And I think he knows a  _bit_  more about fighting than  _you_.”

Oh shit, this was  _bad_. His stupid brother had taken in a cat one winter, and it had done the same thing, pawed its way from the blankets and crawled away to die. And now Soldier was going to do the same thing, and not that he  _cared_ , but Respawn was slower in the snow, and Doc would be mad, and it would really be handy if he could get some freakin’  _help_  out here…

"Medic!" he howls, sprinting through the slippery corridors of the base. "Mediii-"

"What is it now, Scout?" the doctor groans, not looking up from his nightly routine of paperwork and placing orders. 

He tries to explain, gesturing frantically, and somewhere between “buried himself” and “dead cats,” the Medic understands, flying from the laboratory, Medigun in hand, and the Scout can only gasp for breath, cheeks stinging from the meager heat of the lab. 

Legs still trembling with cold, Scout flops into an empty office chair, and he must have fallen asleep, because when he manages to lift his eyelids again, the Soldier is there. 

The older man is bundled in more blankets than the Scout had been during his own brush with hypothermia, and a single hand dangles to the floor, swathed in bandages, damaged beyond the slow, gentle glow of the Medigun’s ceasefire abilities. 

"Frostbite," he grunts when the Scout asks. "From holding Shovel."

Scout winces internally at the thought of metal frozen into skin, shaking his head at the Soldier’s devotion. “I swear, you’re gonna marry that thing.”

"Asked. She said no."


	27. Letters

The snow continues to fall through the night, piling against the windows until they begin to crack under the pressure. The Scout sleeps restlessly, woken every hour by the crashing of snow falling from the roof, kept awake by the drafty windows and too-thin blankets. 

His alarm clock squeals reluctantly, and the Scout groans in protest, knocking it to the floor. Scratchy and thin though the blankets may be, they seemed much more welcoming than the bare tile. 

 

Scout’s toes barely touch the floor as he scampers for warm socks, tugging them on as he stumbles to the kitchen. Usually, his team would be in varying states of preparedness, Pyro munching toast in fluffy slippers, Heavy checking his ammunition as he stirs a mug of tea for himself and the Medic, who always seemed to be half a step behind the rest of the team, dove feathers and birdseed dusted across his sleeves as he yawns his way to the table. 

But today, everyone is clustered around the Engineer, who sits with an enormous cup of coffee and a piece of paper, reading off instructions. 

"You’re on shovelin’ duty, chuckwagon. Back of the base, I think, since Smokey’s handlin’ the front.

"Patchy, you’re blastin’ whatever piles Heavy drums up. Anyone got any questions?"

"Yeah, where’m I going?" the Scout asks, not liking this snowday-with-chores. 

A battered caulking gun is pressed into his hands. “Fixin’ windows, shortstop.”

"What? I gotta stay in here when you all get ta play outside, fuck that, swap me out somewhere, I’ll shovel or-"

"I didn’t make the list, string-bean, Boss did. ‘less ya want ta take it up with her…"

"Naw man, I’m alright," Scout backpedals, glancing uneasily to the security camera in the corner of the ceiling. 

"Well, what’re ya’ll standin’ around for? I gave ya your jobs, now  _git_!”

___________

If Scout knows one thing about fixing broken windows, it’s that it’s  _boring_. He’d hoped that he’d be able to snoop in his team-mates rooms when he fixed their windows, but he didn’t even get to do  _that_ , the team had unanimously decided to be colassal jackasses about it and say they’d fix the windows themselves. 

So instead, he mopes his way through the downstairs, patching the kitchen windows messily before moving onto the common room. 

A record spins tinnily in one corner, almost masking the low muttering of the man who crouches in the middle of the floor, tongue poking out in concentration as he clutches a paintbrush in a shaking grip, hands still wrapped thickly as oven mitts. 

"You’re stuck in here too, hunh?"

"Affirmative," the Soldier grunts, too focused on his task to keep a conversation going. 

"Whatcha working on?" Scout pries, bored of tracing over hairline cracks. 

"Signage."

"Ya know, that’s not how ya spell ‘beware’. Here, lemme fix it."

"Negative! I’m the one in charge of signage, and if you even  _think_  about-“

Scout dips a finger into the dripping paint bucket, squeezing an  _e_  onto the scrap of plywood. 

"Insubordination!" Soldier barks, whipping his paintbrush across the Scout’s face in a rage, splattering paint across them both. "I’m gonna court-martial you so hard, your grandkids’ll taste like justice!"

Scout dumps the remaining paint over the Soldier’s head. 

 


	28. Promise

The floor is streaked white, walls dripping when the Scout collapses to the floor, breathless with laughter. Soldier leans his paint-smeared helmet against an armchair, eyes gummed shut with paint and exhaustion. 

"I think you’re gonna need to make a new sign," Scout chuckles, toeing the empty bucket with a paint-drenched sock. 

"Negative, private.  _You’ll_  be-“

"Now, what’ve you two gotten yourselves into?" the Engineer sighs from the doorway, half a smile showing from under the shadow of his helmet. 

"This maggot thought he’d pull us into some hippie paint festival when we were already given orders to-"

"Hey, you’re the one who painted me first!"

"I was dispensing justice, you were shirking your duties!"

"An’ they had the same freakin’ result, so who’s shirkin’ now?"

Soldier pulls the boy into a headlock, grinding splattered knuckles into unruly hair. Scout tries to retaliate, picking both legs from the ground in an attempt to overbalance his attacker, who stumbles forward, trying to throw the Scout to the ground.

"That’s enough ‘a that," the Engineer interrupts, metallic hand giving the Soldier’s helmet a threatening little pat. "I know ya both got the short end of the stick here, but ‘s not fair for the rest of us to have to clean it up too. You’re on your own."

A bucket of paint thinner sloshes its way onto the floor, and the two mercenaries are still trying to figure out exactly where it came from when the door shuts behind them. 

"I’ll be back to inspect it in a bit, ya’ll better work fast though, your dinner’s gettin’ cold."

Scout looks dubiously to the pair of brushes bobbing in the solvent, wrinkling his nose. “Smells like somethin’ Demo’d drink.”

Soldier doesn’t disagree, just dips his brush and begins scrubbing at the floor, nose an inch from the concrete. Scout sighs in resignation, mopping at the walls, eyes already stinging. 

Half the bucket is gone before they realize they haven’t opened a window. 

"Heh, shit, better get some air in here, gettin’ pretty-woah there!" the Scout says, tripping over the Soldier’s foot on his journey to the window. He hits the floor with a  _thump_ , but scarely feels a thing beyond dizziness. 

"Ya’ll righ’ there?" Soldier slurs, trying unsuccessfully to get to his feet. 

"Yeeeep," Scout drawls, head tipped back as he regards the ceiling with an air of great contemplation. "Jus’ countin’ cracks, def…definitely not gettin’ sleepy, nope. Wonder…wait, no, like, hear me out, what if they forgot about us an’ didn’t come back until morning? Like, maybe they locked the door and we’re stuck in here forever and ever and ever and everrrrr…"

"That won’t happen…"

"But what if it  _does_? What if Engie forgot he stuck us in here?” Scout continues, growing agitated and nervous as he tilts his head to look back at Soldier. 

"It won’t."

"But-"

"If we get locked in, I’ll dig us out. Done it before."

"…Promise?"

A grunt, neither denial nor affirmation. 

"C’mon man, I’m freakin’ out here!"

Soldier heaves an enormous sigh. “I promise, if the team suddenly goes turncoat, I’ll break down the door and haul your sorry maggot ass into the kitchen, and make you a God-damn apple pie. There. Satisfied?”

Scout nods bonelessly, a sleepy grin stretched across his face as he rubs paint from the edge of the door. 

“‘s long as ya help me up… Don’ think I’m gonna move any time soon.”

The door opens from beneath him and Scout tumbles into the fresh air. 

"Ya’ll done? Thought you’d gone an’ passed out in here."


	29. Simple

By the time the Scout and Soldier manage to drag themselves from the turpentine fumes, the rest of the team has already dispersed for the night. 

"How long were we even in there for?" Scout asks from his perch by the open window, gulping down the frigid night air. 

Soldier downs the last of the coffee, cold and bitter, and glances over the mug at the boy. “Least eight hours. One for signage, one spent spilling old-fashioned, white-washed justice on your disobedient cranium, one-“

"Hey, you want to start this fight again? I’ll take ya right here!" Scout blusters, arms outstretched. He moves to leap down from the sill and overbalances, tumbling backwards to land in a snowdrift with a plop. 

The Soldier looks up, only faintly interested, and earns a faceful of snow for his efforts. 

Scout cackles from the drift, drenched and still a little drunk on chemicals, but his aim is good, and another snowball splatters over the man’s helmet before he has a chance to react. 

Soldier gives a rapid shake, a frustrated dog fresh from a bath, and Scout just laughs and laughs, the light from the window glittering off the snow heaped around him. He’s shivering, fingertips numb, nose running, but he’s alive, the Soldier’s face is hilarious, and he can’t stop laughing. 

"Screamin’ Eagles!" the Soldier howls, diving through the window to tackle the Scout back into the snow. One enormous hand keeps him pinned there, the other dropping the helmet, using it as a scoop, shovelling snow into the Scout’s shirt as the boy kicks and shrieks, breathless with laughter. 

Among the cold and the tumbling flakes and the high, helpless cries of “Jesus Christ, stop! C’mon, uncle! Uncle!” it’s enough. It’s happiness, or the closest they’ve gotten in a long time.


	30. Future

The whiteout continues well into Saturday, but no one can be bothered to dig themselves out again on their day off, so Pyro roasts junk mail in the fireplace, potatoes baking in the coals. Engineer challenges the Heavy to their weekly chess match and, with the Medic catching up on paperwork, the Russian is happy to accept, a comfortable silence settling over the commons.

Scout tries to stay quiet, tries to read his dogeared comic book in the warm glow of the fire, wishing there were marshmallows, but it’s just  _too quiet._ His toe begins to tap, quietly, and then more insistently, and the Engineer looks over with the patience of a bull.

"Ants in your pants?" 

 

"I’m gonna go stir-crazy if this snow keeps pilin’ up," Scout explains, thumping the floor for emphasis. 

"If ya need somethin’ to do, there’s a mighty tall pile a’ dishes that need washin’ up."

Scout wrinkles his nose at the thought of scrubbing someone else’s dirty plate, and shakes his head. “Naw, I’m good. I think Snipes was gonna lend me somethin’ so I’ll just run outside an’ check.”

Feeling very proud of his clever excuse, the Scout ducks out of the room and into the corridor, kicking at the floor as he shuffles along. He doesn’t realize he’s bored until his third lap around the corridor. 

He considers bothering the Medic, if only for a moment. Survival instinct battles fiercely with boredom, and the Scout is pushing at the heavy double doors before his rational mind says otherwise. The door gives a squeal, but gets no further than a few inches, blocked from the other side.

Weird. 

Scout puts his fact to the crack in the doors, interest fully piqued. Empty cardboard boxes, scattered tubing, rivets, junk, really. 

"Heavy, is szat you? Just push through it, none of it is imp-ah, Scout. To what do I owe zhe pleasure? Another bout of hypothemia?" Medic says from somewhere behind the mountain of boxes, tone shifting from amiable to annoyed in a matter of syllables. 

"What, I can’t go for a walk by the lab without an interrogation now?"

In the silence, Scout could swear he hears the Medic’s arms folding. 

"Seriously though, I’m just passin’ by. Rest of the guys are bein’ boring as shit."

"I’m sure. Probably all quiet as zhe grave and not causing any trouble."

"Well, yeah, but it’s creepy, no one sayin’ a word, jus’ sittin’, doin’ whatever. It’s like-"

"Like friends enjoying each other’s company? Oh, I’m sure, very alarming. Do keep me informed on any developments szat happen while I’m down here  _getting work done._ Or take zhis rubbish avay. I don’t care.”

Scout splutters for a retort and, finding nothing, begins to gather the trash into his arms. Taking out the trash would give him something to do, and he wouldn’t have to spar with grumpy Germans in the process. 

He reaches the dumpster, sheltered by an outcropping of roof, and he shivers. It may not be snowy here, but it sure is cold…

…What was that?

He can hear something rooting around in the garbage, maybe a racoon or something, and he flips the lid open. 

"Get outta-what’re ya doin’ in there, Sarge?"

The Soldier pulls himself from the rubbish, dropping a rucksack to the ground, heavy with scrap metal. 

"You know what these can make, private?" he barks, giving the metal a little kick. 

"Uhh…?"

"Bullets."

"Right, well, we got pleny a’ those…"

"Not for here, for the war!"

"I dunno, man, I’m pretty sure this is the only war goin’ on right now."

"Now? What short-sighted hippie bullshit is that? You think there isn’t going to be another war?"

"What? How’m I supposed to know?"

"Exactly! You don’t. Now, what’ve you got in those boxes? Aluminium? Steel nails?"

"Nothin’, just junk. Tubing an’ shit. Throwing it out for Doc-hey! Hands off, pally!"

"Ah ha!" Soldier cries, pulling free a coil of tubing. "You know what this is made of?"

"Uh, plastic?"

"Rubber, maggot. You know how useful this is?

"Look," the Soldier continues, shaking a box under the Scout’s nose. "All iron pieces in here."

"Yeah, but they’re broken."

"They’ll be melted down anyway! You’re an embarrassment to your countrymen, you never would have survived war-time!"

"Hey, I’m doin’ alright here!" 

The Soldier doesn’t bother to comment, just tries to scoop up his treasures. The pile is enormous, and it falls to the ground several times before Soldier kicks it with a grunt of frustration. 

"Who’s the embarrassment to his country now, hunh?"

Soldier just tries again, again, again, Scout watching, half entertained, half annoyed. 

"Look, it’d be a lot easier if-"

"Can it!"

"Fine!" the Scout snaps back. "I was just gonna say it’d be a lot easier if you tried holdin’ your shit a different way."

"I only have two hands," Soldier protests. 

"Yeah, but, jeez, okay, look," Scout explains, picking up the widest piece of tubing. "Stick your arm in, yeah, exactly. An’ the other arm too.

"Now just put all the metal bits in your laundry sack, or whatever that bag is, ‘cause they’ll fall outta the box when ya do  _this._ " The Scout perches the empty box on the Soldier’s head, twisting a discarded clothes-hanger onto the crown. 

"There, I think you got it all."

The Soldier gives a grateful salute a muffled,  ”You deserve a medal, private,” sounding from his boxy helmet as he marches stiffly back to base, proud as a peacock.

The Scout just laughs and laughs, closing the door behind them. 


End file.
